(Phantasia) Ghosts of Blacklake

Part 4. -End-

The dark waters splashed around like waves, as if they were vipers striking prey. They prey being Ayan, stepping back to avoid being pulled and dragged under in the lake's deadly embrace. The water was aided by the wind, howling and pulling on his cloak and his clothes and his hair, to haul him under so he would stop his attack on the monk. At least, that why he thought they did it. If anyone were to blame for the terrible things that had happened so far, it was the monk. 

Regardless, Ayan stood, and kept standing, while the rotted village arose once again from the grime and the muck that dripped off of it, and soon after, the villagers arose as well. But not only the villagers. 

There were the rangers, and the old man. Ayan's heart felt heavy when he looked at them, trapped under the undead curse. Regardless, Ayan climbed onto the soppy wood and, while trying to stay balanced and not slip, hid behind one of the grimy and slimy houses of the village of Blacklake. It was one of the only houses that still resembled a house most, compared to some of them only being the wooden poles of the framing. Everything here had the horrible dark-green tint of wet rotted wood. Ayan didn't dare to peek past the corner yet. His breathing was heavy despite him trying to keep it in, and the adrenaline racing through him caused him to break out in a cold sweat. His heart pounded in his chest as he anticipated what he would do next.  What would he do next? He hadn't planned that out yet. 

The undead had not yet noticed him, it seemed. He heard them grumble and moan, and scrape across the wooden flooring. He heard the rough laughter of the monk, with a tone of pain intertwined. "Of course," Ayan thought, stifling a laugh. "I hit him before. If they can feel, they can feel pain. And if they can feel pain, they're probably able to die... Probably." The mantle felt ice-cold and clammy around his shoulders as he very, very carefully peeked past the corner of the house. 

There he was, still fierce and aggressive as ever... The monk of the black lake. He had taken the arrow and thrown it out of his eye already. Ayan couldn't see where it was, if it was even here at all. "Too bad. I'll probably have to fill that hole again." He chuckled and slammed his mouth shut immediately after as dozens of glazed white eyes looked his way. His fear returned. Should he just have left when he had the chance? Whistle for Bayo, and never return here?  

"No. Not today." 

Ayan stepped away from the house, now standing in full view. He promised to save these people, and Blacklake as a whole, and he would hold true to that, even at the cost of his life. 

He took a big breath of air. It wasn't fresh by any stretch, but he needed it.  Knees bent, sword and crossbow clenched in his hand, teeth gnashing and all the while growling like a wild animal he looked at the monk, bright valiant green meeting deep, hate-filled red. 

"Monk! You'll pay for what you did! No longer will you bother these people! I'll put an end to you myself!" The undead did not move. They would not move, safe for the monk's word. And the white-haired monk stared in bewilderment at the angry boy, with one eye wide- and one eye half-open. Black, hissing slime dripped out of his broken eye. Then, he grinned. 

"Brave..." He spoke. Finally. The monk actually spoke. "Awfully brave." He floated a little, and took small steps from left to right in mid-air. "What a shame. You could've served me well. Me and my gods." 

Ayan shivered, but his fear had been smothered solely by the flames of his temper. "Get lost with your gods! You are going down!" The monk frowned at that, seemingly displeased. He stood still, beholding the boy while a bony hand tapped the corner of his dried-up mouth. 

"So it shall be... Kill him. Djeorog!" 

The word of command moved the horde, and they moved towards Ayan who was surrounded quicker than he could fathom. The panic in his nerves dulled his senses. Now Ayan felt quite some pressure once again. He knew he could take these people down, they would just regrow themselves and wander once more. But he wondered if he should. Could the undead feel pain? The monk certainly did. And what would happen when the curse was lifted? Would their wounds grow back? Was this even possible? Ayan looked behind him, the questions in his mind clotting the way of clear thoughts. He saw the old man, and his cloaked comrades. Each of them still had their sigil. Their small, silver dagger, covered in grime. An idea began to click.